


The grabbing hands (Grab all they can)

by Lothiriel84



Category: The Monster Hunters (Podcast)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Identity Issues, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Non-Consensual Body Modification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22698265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: It's a competitive worldEverything counts in large amounts
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	The grabbing hands (Grab all they can)

It’s the hands, he thinks, fingers flexing obediently in response to his command. Slender, well-manicured hands, with polished fingernails, sharp as talons.

They’re nothing like his own – broad, strong hands, calluses marking the spots where the familiar weight of his gun used to rest. He pictures them in his mind, wilfully ignoring the sting of his long nails as they dig into his palms.

(Every utterance of the hateful phrase _knowing something like the palm of your hand_ awakening a new brand of primordial terror in him now, a raw, feral feeling, gnawing at his insides like an unrelenting tiger.)

He looks at her in the mirror like she’s just another stranger – the femme fatale type you sometimes stumble upon in bars, mysterious and alluring in an unreal sort of way. He thinks of how easy it would be for him to fall prey to her charms – if it weren’t for his own eyes staring back at him from her perfect face, unmistakable even when the colour and shape are all wrong.

Oh, how he hates her sometimes – like a fish resenting the tank he’s sitting in, helpless to do anything but swim around inside in circles. This beautiful woman he cannot break free of, not until the day they die – and once was enough, he thinks with a shudder, the short, sharp pain of nails breaking skin a welcome relief from the horrifying memories he’s forced to relieve over and over again, every time he closes his eyes.

Nausea hits him, and he collapses back onto the bed. He needs to get out of here, and soon; Colonel Dalby’s getting more insistent with each passing day, his fingers itching with the desperate need to scratch the ghost touch of that sweaty hand away from his skin. Before he realises what he’s doing, his hand is inching up his thigh, under the fabric of the very same skirt Hans Grind dressed him in, on that first day.

(Again, it’s not so much the new, unfamiliar anatomy he carries down there, as it is the touch of those fingers – like he’s trying to drive a car from the backseat, and failing at that. He shivers and pushes his knickers aside – the lace rubbing on his skin all wrong, and he cannot for the life of him decide who’s the most sickening pervert, Dalby or Grind.)

His legs fall apart – long, smooth legs he would have once craved to run his hands all over – even as his fingers pick up the pace. This, he can get behind – the sharp spikes of pleasure he can chase again and again, until he forgets he’s just another experiment, a monster wearing someone else’s skin.

When he comes, it’s with the beginning of a name on his lips, his hair a cascade of silk around his shoulders. _I’m getting out of here if it’s the last thing I do_, he thinks, dazed and only slightly nauseous, tugging the folds of his skirt firmly back in place.


End file.
